


Un Jour Parfait

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Roleplay - Teacher and Student, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt stops by for some ‘private tutoring’ when Blaine’s parents are out of town. <b><a href="http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/18653045964/allez-vas-y-accelere-un-jour-parfait-chapter-5">Reblog on Tumblr!</a></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Having Blaine back at school is the best. The  _absolute_  best. With midterms taking place, the halls are crowded between periods as students rush from one classroom to the next, huddling around the precious few who have kept up with the curriculum and all cramming in the minutes they have left. In all of the confusion, Blaine manages to slip his hand into Kurt’s as they walk by the lockers, and Kurt isn’t sure if it’s the time apart that’s made them bolder, but he loves every second of it, tracing the lines in Blaine’s palm with his thumb and feeling that much more invincible.  
  
“You’re going to be late for class,” Blaine points out one day, words catching and muffled as Kurt nips at his lower lip, already swollen. His foot shuffles to the side as they maneuver back against cool metal shelving, and Blaine doesn’t really know Lauren Zizes all that well, but there are days when he finds himself tempted to thank her for the idea of seven minutes of heaven in the janitor’s closet.  
  
Kurt’s breath fans over the side of Blaine’s jaw, lips pressing up the line until he’s able to murmur against the shell of Blaine’s ear. “I don’t care,” he declares with a sigh. “I’ve had nothing to do but study while you were away, and besides, the only midterm I have left is French, et mon français est  _parfait_.”  
  
Closing his eyes and letting his gaze roll to the ceiling, Blaine takes a breath to center himself, hands on Kurt’s hips, pressing into the smooth curve of hipbones before he laughs, shaking his head. “Speak for yourself,” he counters, turning his head to press a kiss against Kurt’s cheekbone, then the other, hands raising to replace the touch. “You’d think that teachers could afford to push back a midterm for a student who’s been out for a few weeks, but I have to take that same exam with you on Friday. French has never been my strong suit in the first place.”  
  
“Then why take it?” asks Kurt, shifting his arms to rest around Blaine’s shoulders, fingers teasing at the nape of his neck. “Mr. Schue would’ve easily given you a break.”  
  
“Yeah, but… no offense to our coach, but Kurt, any teacher who thinks performing ‘La Cucaracha’ is a good use of class time—”  
  
“—needs to seriously look at revising his curriculum, I know,” nods Kurt. “There’s a reason why I switched last year. But it sounds like with Mr. Martinez taking over the class, everything’s drastically improved. Even Brittany now realizes that  _alegre_  isn’t the term for flushing baby alligators down the toilet.”  
  
“Well, until Mr. Martinez decides to switch over to teaching French, I don’t see that helping me out much, unfortunately,” Blaine points out, brushing his palm up Kurt’s side, thumb tracing lazy circles along the way. “Although I wouldn’t mind getting to make you jealous for once, if he’s really the kind of eye-catching dreamy you’ve described to me. I  _did_  have a thing for my history teacher back in my freshman year at Dalton.” He raises a brow, teasing.  
  
Catching Blaine’s pause, Kurt leans in for another kiss, taking the advantage of a sigh to trace his tongue along the line of Blaine’s teeth, one hand raking down the center of his shirt, catching on the buttons one by one. “Sounds like you have a thing for older men,” Kurt murmurs against Blaine’s lips before deepening the kiss, sucking gently at his tongue.  
  
“Nn _kurt_ , okay, really,” laughs Blaine through a gasp, sneaking out from under Kurt’s hold and still feeling the pulse of blood in his swollen lip, among… other places. “If all of these tardies add up to an unexcused absence on your record, your dad is going to have my  _hide_.”  
  
“Fine, fine,” Kurt grins, and while his expression is the picture of calm, Blaine can’t help but smile at the clear flush of red that tinges his boyfriend’s cheeks. “But if you really needed help with French, you know that you could’ve just asked me,” he adds, tugging a compact out of his pocket to fix his hair and adjust the collar of his turtleneck, the sort that they’re running out of time to use with winter drawing thin.  
  
Brushing through his hair a couple of times with his comb, Blaine shrugs. “How’s tonight? My parents are out of town through the weekend.”  
  
The compact shuts with a snap, and Blaine swears that his heart skips a beat when Kurt glances over, chin tilted down coyly and hands reaching out to correct his boyfriend’s crooked tie.  
  
“Then consider your night booked, honey,” Kurt smiles.  
  
Ten minutes later, when Blaine’s sitting in history class and lamenting the fact that Mr. Schue doesn’t really have any more passion for history than he did for Spanish, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Glancing nervously up, he turns the alert down to ‘Light Only,’ before unlocking the phone.  
 ****  
Kurt (12:47)  
I trust that you still have your Dalton uniform, yes?  
 ****  
Blaine (12:48)  
??? Yeah of course. Why?  
 ****  
Kurt (12:49)  
Wear it tonight. I think it’ll help set the studying mood.  
  
Blaine’s brows raise a touch — (“Blaine, are you paying attention? No texts in the classroom.” “Yeah, sorry, Mr. Schue, I’m turning it off now, just a second. I’m really sorry.”) — before he quickly texts a reply.  
 ****  
Blaine (12:52)  
Ok sure. Come over whenever you’re done with dinner  
  
And try as he might, the rest of the school day is nothing more to Blaine than twiddling thumbs and the idly burning question of whether or not bowties and capris really do make it harder to focus on the lesson.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:
> 
> _Et mon français est parfait: And my French is perfect._


	2. Chapter 2

When the clock hits five, Blaine’s starting to rethink the idea of wearing his uniform to study. Far from putting him in the right mindset, he’s broken spontaneously into song at least half a dozen times since slipping into the blazer, rediscovering just how easy it is to shuffle and slide in his socks over the hardwood floors of his kitchen. (The only part of his uniform that’s incomplete now is the lack of shoes; his mom would have a conniption if she returned from vacation to find scuff marks all over her newly waxed floors.) As it turns out, trying for quadruple spins on the maple flooring doesn’t mix well with washing the household china, and it takes the death of a teacup saucer to sober Blaine back into sitting at his study table, foot tapping in time to Roxy Music.  
  
Fortunately, five minutes later, the doorbell rings.  
  
“I’ve got it!” he calls out of habit, shaking his head at himself as he bounds down the staircase uninterrupted — his parents are never too eager to greet Kurt at the door, so barring another ‘accident’ that leaves him half-blind, Blaine’s not sure that he’ll ever have much competition in running to get the front door so long as he lives under this roof.  
  
For now, he’s okay with looking at the silver lining: he gets to be the one to welcome Kurt into the house every time.  
  
“Kurt, I’m so glad you’re here,” Blaine chatters before the door’s managed to open all the way. “I’m not sure wearing the Dalton blazer is — whoa.”  
  
For a few seconds, Blaine can only blink. Standing right in front of him is his boyfriend, sporting a crisp, checkered white and crimson dress shirt impeccably ironed at the collar, around which his shoulders are wrapped in a light tan blazer, complete with a black and white striped tie that’s smoothly drawn down the center. He’s never been more appreciative of Kurt’s tailoring skills than now, gaze skimming along the close-fitting lines of fabric, hardly even a single pucker down the line of his legs, but folds in all of the right places by Kurt’s tapered waist, and suddenly Blaine wants nothing more than to sneak an arm around his boyfriend and kiss him silly, kiss him until he’s  _breathless_  and left wanting more. By the time he glances up to meet Kurt’s gaze, his lips are curved in a grin, expectant.  
  
Better yet, he realizes, Kurt’s wearing  _glasses_. Something which he should do  _far_  more often, Blaine thinks, barely managing to commit the sight of them to memory before Kurt’s clearing his throat and slipping inside, Blaine following shortly thereafter as though guided by an invisible leash.  
  
“Mr. Anderson,” Kurt begins, eyes growing stern as Blaine tries and fails to stifle a laugh. “I’ve recently been informed that your performance in school has declined in recent weeks, and as such, have been hired as your private tutor. As you well know, your Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate exams are fast approaching and will prove critical in applying to and being  _accepted_  by your school of choice.”  
  
“Kurt?” murmurs Blaine, still half-expecting for his boyfriend to dissolve into laughter. They’ve tried roleplaying before to very little effect, dissecting great Sondheim plays and trying to fit one another into the roles, but somehow this time, Kurt’s not relenting, and Blaine feels his throat go dry and pulse hasten as he follows Kurt into the kitchen.  
  
“And lest it’s somehow  _unclear_ , Mr. Anderson, I am your French tutor, and as such you will refer to me as professeur,” replies Kurt as he places a pile of books on the table and waves curtly at the chair. “Comprenez-vous?”  
  
Blaine nods, cheeks quickly flushing as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and were he able to focus on anything more than the color of Kurt’s eyes, somehow darker and brighter for the way his brows are furrowed, maybe Blaine would realize that the scrape of the chair against the floor is Kurt’s hint to sit down. Or maybe, that subconscious snake of a voice murmurs in the back of his mind, he’s just waiting to be  _told_.  
  
“Bon. Asseyez-vous.”  
  
And oh, does Blaine do as he’s told.   

* * *

Usually, Blaine likes to study with music playing in the background. If lyrics prove too distracting, he’s liable to put on some soft rock instrumentals, or even a symphony or two as desired, light melodies to keep his spirits up. But the kitchen right now is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and so he swears that Kurt must be able to hear the pounding of Blaine’s heart, quickening whenever he feels the other boy pass. A correct answer earns Blaine a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, Kurt’s fingers deftly kneading into the tense muscle, able to pinpoint the knots at a single touch and sending a shiver down Blaine’s spine, knocking all thoughts askew.   
  
“See? Was that so hard?” Kurt murmurs, leaning in against Blaine’s shoulder, close enough that his breath fans hotly against the shell of Blaine’s ear.   
  
Suddenly,  _hard_  is putting it lightly, and Blaine squirms in his seat, trying to hide his obvious excitement from view. He blinks heavily, trying to ease away the haze of comfort that washes over him, because even in a setting like this, there’s nothing Blaine loves more than knowing that he’s deserving of Kurt’s pride, knowing that he’s done something  _right_ , praiseworthy rather than adding to the countless list of mistakes that every teenager finds themselves saddled with over the course of high school. He wants to hear it again, that breathless tone against his ear, and Blaine shifts as he tries to focus his eyes on the next question, but all at once he’s afraid that Kurt will notice the obvious bulge next to his thigh — Kurt’s taken time out of his day to help Blaine  _study_ , and the least that Blaine can do is return that effort respectfully.   
  
As soon as Kurt steps away to grab a mug of coffee, Blaine quietly slips his free palm on top of his erection, a silent gasp slipping between his teeth as he realizes just how hard he already is. His ears burn red with the thought that this isn’t even the first time something like this has happened in class, and all he can do is thank his stars that whoever took it upon themselves to design these uniforms chose a dark color that helps to hide all depth. Swallowing thickly, Blaine shifts again, using the sound of moving fabric to hide the way he strokes himself quick and through his trousers — once, then twice, clutching himself halfway around the base and willing the soft pulse of his cock down.   
  
It doesn’t help that whenever Kurt’s turned around, his ass is directly in Blaine’s line of sight, fabric tight around the round shape that Blaine knows so well,  _intimately_ , from experiences ranging from a quick pinch in the middle of glee club to a soft, breathless caress between sheets.   
  
His length stiffens against his palm, and this train of thought is  _clearly_  not working, Blaine only just managing to stifle his groan behind a sharp bite to his lower lip.  
  
The sound catches Kurt’s attention. “Having trouble?” he asks, eyes falling on the paper as he rounds the corner of the table, thighs pressed against the side where Blaine can see, and his gaze wanders again and — god, someone  _stop_  him, he’s the worst student  _ever_ .   
  
“It looks like I was for hoping for too much after all,” Kurt scolds with a tsk, tugging a red felt pen down from where it’d been resting against his ear and marking a dot by every mistake.   
  
“Sorry,” Blaine mutters, head hanging in shame as he adjusts himself on the seat again, trying to pinch his thigh through the cloth, anything to take attention away from the coil in his stomach, fueled now by a new wave of humiliation. “I just need more practice, I — I can get it right.”   
  
“Mr. Anderson, if you would  _stop_  fidgeting.” Voice sharp, Kurt drops the paper suddenly to the table, rapping sharply against the wood and leaning over Blaine’s shoulder again, hand firmly pressing down on Blaine’s thigh to stop all the squirming. “And  _pay attention_ . Here, your mistake—”   
  
And whatever that first mistake is, or the second, or the third, Blaine doesn’t take any of it in for a second, because with the way Kurt’s hand is splayed over his leg, Blaine can feel his boyfriend’s knuckles brushing against the hard line of his erection. He closes his eyes to keep from betraying the way his eyes already roll to the back of his head, forces a frown painfully in hopes that it lends him an air of concentration, rather than the dizzying vertigo he actually feels, Kurt’s sharp voice cutting through as quickly as any touch.   
  
Suddenly Kurt’s hand pulls away, and Blaine looks up in alarm, eyes wide, afraid at being caught. “Sorry,” he breathes quickly, panic closing up his throat. “I was—”   
  
“Is this a  _joke_  to you, Mr. Anderson?”   
  
Quickly, Blaine’s hands fold in his lap out of reflex, and two seconds later he realizes his mistake. If he was excited before, there’s practically a tent in his trousers now, and Blaine tries his best to hide it under his palms, pressing down like he’s all of fourteen again and trying to fight a body he can’t even begin to know how to control. “No,” he reassures Kurt with a quick shake of his head. “It’s just been a long day—”   
  
“You keep on fidgeting in that chair.”   
  
“Yeah, it’s — it’s a little uncomfortable, honestly, especially after several hours of class—”   
  
“I don’t hear anyone else complaining.”   
  
Blaine forgets for a second that they’re alone in the house, that there isn’t even anyone else around  _to_  complain, and instead shake his head helplessly. “I’m — I’m sorry, professeur.”   
  
“Well, we can’t study if you can’t concentrate,” Kurt concludes, gathering up the texts and closing Blaine’s workbook with a snap. “Let’s move to the living room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:
> 
> _Professeur: Teacher, professor._  
>  Comprenez-vous?: Do you understand?  
> Bon: Good.  
> Asseyez-vous: Sit down.


	3. Chapter 3

In the Anderson household, the living room is about as close to sacred as anything gets. It’s the room that guests are welcomed into, the room that Blaine’s mother toils over tirelessly, dusting and polishing until one’s reflection can be spotted in every other surface. They don’t even call it the living room, instead referring to it as the ‘parlour,’ as though somehow that raises its esteem, and it’s all so pretentious that Blaine avoids the room whenever possible for all that it’s the antithesis of his own personality. Now, he watches in apprehension as Kurt walks purposely through the halls, and wonders if he’s the only one of the two who feels nervous, or even ashamed still — unlike practically every other guest Blaine remembers coming by the house, Kurt’s never been expressly invited into the parlour.  
  
Blaine wishes that he could’ve been the one to suggest it first, but he hasn’t stepped in here since the day he told his father that he wanted to transfer out of Dalton, and there’s something about the memories that he doesn’t want tarnishing what he has with Kurt.  
  
(“Your mother and I started sending you to Dalton at your request, Blaine. We have  _constantly_  tried to provide you with the best education available in the area, yet you are spurning our efforts now, and for what? A  _phase?_  I hope you begin to understand the consequences that come with your actions, because after everything that your teachers have offered you at Dalton, we will  _not_  insult them by begging for your readmission. There is no turning back, Blaine.”)  
  
His eyes rest on the large armchair in the room, and it’s as though nothing there has moved at all, the very same cracks of golden color speckling over dark amber leather, worn like badges in honor of the passage of time.  
  
(“I know that you don’t understand what I’m going through, dad, but I’m not doing this for Kurt. I’m doing this for myself. Because I love him, and I don’t want to spend a second away from him, and he’s made me a better man. I like the person I become around him.”)  
  
But if being in this almost forbidden section unnerves Kurt at all, it doesn’t show; Blaine can only see that same confidence that pulls Kurt’s shoulders back, and an almost blasé air as he glances over the look of the space. Ironically, Blaine’s pretty sure that this room is decorated exactly to his boyfriend’s taste, and his heart aches for the day — he hopes — that his mom and Kurt really get to sit down together and talk, because there is  _so_  much that they share without even knowing.  
  
The snap of blinds draws Blaine’s attention again, eyes darting up in time to catch Kurt’s gaze, piercing even when obscured by the reflection of his glasses. With a soft breath, Blaine takes a couple of steps forward, shaking his head as he tries to reach a hand for Kurt’s jaw, heart clamoring in his chest.  
“Kurt,” he breathes, “Kurt, can we just… drop this for a second?”  
  
“You’re distracted,” remarks Kurt quietly, his gaze frustratingly impassive, and Blaine feels his own shoulders slumping.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” he agrees. “C’mon, I don’t know how you expect me to concentrate with you dressed like…  _that_ , or when we’re inside this  _room_.” His hand draws down the length of Kurt’s torso, hovering a couple of inches away, as though not having the permission to step any closer than that.  
  
Still, Kurt’s gaze remains cold, and Blaine shivers when Kurt speaks up again, the edge in Kurt’s voice so unfamiliar to him. “With me dressed  _how_ , exactly? Mr. Anderson, is there _anything_  about my appearance that you think inappropriate for my station?” Kurt arches a brow, and Blaine swears that his voice is lower, and it’s  _hot_. Confusing, too.  
  
“No.”  
  
“No,” repeats Kurt, the touch of his gaze dropping down to Blaine’s chest. When Blaine’s eyes try to follow the movement, Kurt clears his throat sharply — Blaine looks up again. “My eyes are up  _here_ , Mr. Anderson.”  
  
“Sorry.” Blaine’s ears are burning, and the mere proximity of Kurt — they’re so close, but they aren’t  _touching_ , why aren’t they touching — is dizzying. Even if his brain realizes that the two of them should be studying now, there’s not a single part of him that doesn’t feel drawn, his anxiety stretched tight like a thread that threatens to snap with want, and his skin prickles for the indecency that comes from those traitorous thoughts invading  _here_ , in the parlour, of all places.  
  
“But you’re right.”  
  
“Wh-what?” There’s a tug on his blazer, and—  
  
“You’re too distracted. If you think I haven’t  _noticed_ , then you’re not giving me enough credit.”  
  
—it falls loose, a slight shift of weight that leaves it hanging over his shoulders, and—  
  
“How often does this happen, Mr. Anderson? How am I supposed to teach you a  _lesson_  when your mind is elsewhere?”  
  
—holy  _shit_ , there’s a tug around his waist, and that’s Kurt, it’s gotta be Kurt, and even without looking Blaine can picture the pale color of Kurt’s complexion, like cream, contrasting with the deep blue of his uniform, slipping the button undone, and he feels himself pressing against the fabric again, a jolt of excitement pooling when he hears the faint sound of a zipper and feels a rush of cool air—  
  
“But as you seem  _completely incapable_  of applying yourself, I am now going to do you a favor and teach you the real meaning of control.”  
  
—and the familiar sensation of Kurt’s fingertips, so soft in contrast with their firm touch, as they trail down Blaine’s abdomen; it takes every last ounce of restraint to keep from lurching, and he doesn’t breathe, and he  _can’t_  breathe, can’t remember the last time that he was so hard from a single touch alone, even Kurt’s, and—  
  
“You will do as I say. You will  _ask permission_  before taking any action of your own.”  
  
—as Kurt’s palm presses against his length, Blaine feels a sob catch in his throat, hips jutting forward before he can stop himself, only to be rewarded by a sharp thumb digging against his hipbone, a flash of something not quite like anger in Kurt’s eyes—  
  
“Like that. Not allowed.”  
  
—before his thumb trails along the slit of Blaine’s cock, slick with precome, and every muscle in his body clenches, as though holding back some physical force, or perhaps more accurately, holding it  _in_  as his heart beats like an unsteady drum.  
  
“Nod if you understand.”  
  
Blaine nods, the movement slight and the gold of his irises deepening into a burnt rust, even as his black pupils threaten to swallow their color. Palms clammy with a cold sweat, his brow furrows as he tentatively raises his hand — that’s what they do in class, isn’t it? And this is a lesson. (God, he can’t even  _think_  straight.)  
  
“Yes, Mr. Anderson?”  
  
A flutter of nerves settles in his chest, and Blaine runs a tongue briefly over his lips, wetting them. “May I kiss you?” he asks, voice thin and reedy, hips stock still where they’re trapped between Kurt’s fingers.  
  
He swears that he catches the glimpse of a smile on Kurt’s lips, threatening to shatter the moment.  
  
“No.”    

* * *

Somehow, he manages to get permission to sit on the couch, which is good because he  _swears_  that his legs were about to give under him, shaky like those of a newborn colt, toes curling in white knit socks and visible for all to see.  
  
His skin is damp in the space exposed when his shirt rides up, and it sticks to the leather of the couch, and Blaine almost wants to laugh for the way his father would react if only he knew, the look on his mother’s face, and his eyes raise to the ceiling when he blinks, the only way to potentially keep Kurt from noticing.  
  
Only he does anyway, hand squeezing around the base of Blaine’s cock, and his gasp runs ragged as his back arches, pushing blindly against the pressure.  
  
“ _Please_ ,” he breathes, and Kurt only squeezes tighter, sparks blooming at the edges of Blaine’s vision and static snapping from where his sock’s dragged against the rug one too many times.  

* * *

“Please, sir, I need to use the bathroom.”  
  
“Our break is at seven, and not a minute earlier, Anderson.”  
  
Chest heaving, Blaine’s eyes dart to the grandfather clock in the room, the soft noise of skin against slick skin quieter than the steady tick-tock.  
  
6:52.   


* * *

His cheeks are dusted pink as he stumbles up the stairs, knuckles white where they clutch at the banister, and every step is a trial for the way that his blood pulses, cacophonic. Roxy Music filters out from the crack in his door, and the sheer ridiculousness is enough for a laugh to drop, bright, from his lips as he presses a heavy palm to his temple. He can’t remember for what reason he had his alarm set, only that he needs to find his box of tissues  _now_ , given only five minutes for his bathroom break, and his fingers hook onto the cardboard before he stumbles into the bathroom with hand wrapping quick around his cock.   
  
“Shit,” he breathes, sinking down until he rests against cool tile, hand pumping quick, even as his body still feels weak to the bone. He won’t be long, Blaine thinks, imagining Kurt’s gaze razor sharp behind his frames, but lips parted just enough for a kiss.   
  
Not seconds later, a knock on the door sounds.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Blaine breathes, eyes already glittering darkly as they lift to find Kurt slipping into the room, the click of the door sharp enough to draw a gasp from his lips, swollen only from the bite of his own teeth. He’s silenced with a single look from Kurt, sharp and penetrating, and somehow Blaine knows to let himself go, palms warm and sticky as they press against tile, arms shaking with the effort it takes to keep sitting upright.  
  
“You’re learning,” Kurt remarks, and no matter how soft his skin is when brushing down the side of Blaine’s cheek, all that Blaine can focus on is the warmth of it, smooth like silk — would feel better wrapped around his cock — would feel better under open-mouthed kisses — probably tastes like that body butter Kurt uses, something bright and almost minty that Blaine can’t put his finger on.  
  
Blaine turns his head just so, teeth grazing lightly against Kurt’s fingertips, begging him to stay.  
  
“Didn’t give you permission to do that,” admonishes Kurt, eyes narrowing as he pulled his hands away and shrugged his blazer off, hooking it neatly over the side of the bathtub. “Every time I think you’ve learned the lesson, Anderson, you just take three steps back. How am I supposed to work with that?” Blaine holds silent as he watches, cheeks flushing at the sight of thin, black suspenders tight over the crisp folds of Kurt’s shirt.  
  
Shaking his head —  _I don’t know, how would you prefer to teach the lesson, wouldn’t you be able to tell me, tell me and I’ll do it, you,_ anything — Blaine falls weakly against the wall again with a soft thud of his shoulder blade. His arms begin to quake as Kurt steps closer, Kurt’s hands wrapping strongly around Blaine’s biceps and hauling him up to a standing position, however precarious.  
  
“Attention, Anderson. I don’t care for  _slackers_.”  
  
Blaine pants wetly, eyes widening at the sudden press of Kurt’s hips against his own, jerking forward to try and force some amount of traction between the both of them, his erection throbbing, stiffening,  _aching_  with a need for attention. The heat doesn’t stop there — it winds, instead, around his muscles, a hot pressure that seems to drive deep in the core of his body, a tightness he can’t shake when Kurt pushes them back, enough to land with a thump against the wall. Blaine’s breath shudders; he’s close. Eyes catching just long enough to focus on the distinct line of shadow along Kurt’s neck, Blaine leans forward, tentative in a way that he’s never quite been, begging permission as he sucks Kurt’s skin between his teeth, earning a bright gasp.  
  
“Anderson,” Kurt breathes, and in spite of holding fast to the details, Blaine can feel his boyfriend starting to melt under his fingers, shifting planes of muscle that give way for them to press flush against each other. The long, hot length of Kurt’s cock presses against the side of Blaine’s thigh, pulsing through the fabric, and his own stiffens in response, lips then pressing a line of kisses up that shadow until he’s reached Kurt’s jaw. Words murmured silently there, worshipful.  
  
 _Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’d do anything —_ anything _— to make this forever._  
  
Blaine shifts his knee, pressing his thigh firmly between Kurt’s legs, and the jolt of movement from Kurt’s body, as though struck with sudden electricity, is enough to tug a growl from Blaine’s lips. Hands splay over Kurt’s cheeks — they’re warm under his palms, flushed a pretty pink, and the line of shadow cast by Kurt’s glasses reminds Blaine of younger summers spent curled under the covers, sheets warm, skin damp from fantasies only ever whispered to the four walls protecting him on all sides. Somehow, Kurt’s pliable to the touch now, arms shifting with the encouraged movement that Blaine nudges by pressing palm to the smooth underside of Kurt’s forearms, and they turn, turn until Kurt’s the one pinned at last.  
  
What makes the knot tighten in Blaine’s stomach is knowing just how easily Kurt could turn the situation around, if he wanted. How every eager nip of skin to teeth is about pleasing  _Kurt_ , always Kurt.  
  
As though to prove his point, Kurt’s fingers reach out again, deftly tugging down Blaine’s trousers until they fall completely to the ground with a huff of air.  
  
“Our five minutes have surely passed by now,” he remarks, voice smooth and aggravatingly calm.  
  
“I didn’t notice.”  
  
“Ready to get started?” Kurt’s voice lowers, hoarse in his throat, practically asking for the quick press of Blaine’s lips to the spot as his tongue laves in teasing circles, trying to coax more words. Caught up in the act, Blaine doesn’t notice Kurt’s fingers burying into his hair until they snag in the curls, tugging forcibly until the boys break contact with the light smack of lips to skin.  
  
“Started?” Blaine’s eyes gaze with the dark gold of blown glass.  
  
He doesn’t have long to wait, barely daring to move his chin as Kurt shifts slightly to tug out the top drawer of the sink cabinet, finding an otherwise innocuous white bottle that he clicks open with a single finger. Pouring a liberal amount of lubricant into his palms, Kurt never once breaks eye contact with Blaine as he then begins to smooth the oil over Blaine’s length, warm to the touch. Blaine squirms, trying ever so cautiously to rock his hips towards Kurt as the oil slides down his cock, tickling to the touch, until Kurt’s fingers then slick over his balls, and then further back still, the motion smooth until his fingers dip down against the pucker; automatically, Blaine clenches, if only because he’s not sure how else he’ll survive this, breath heady with want, and it’s too  _much_. His jaw already aches where it’s been clenched for what feels like an eternity — there are better uses for his lips, Blaine thinks, eyes fluttering shut as he imagines paying Kurt that same amount of attention that he’s receiving now.  
  
Without warning, Kurt slips a finger in against the pucker with a flash of mischievous eyes, and Blaine swears that he gasps sharply enough that  _people will hear_ , certainly at least the moans that fall from his lips as he immediately bucks back against the finger, fucking where Kurt won’t, lost to chaos for all of the control that Kurt’s tried to teach him.  
  
“Mr. Hummel, I  _can’t_ —” Blaine strains, words shuddering in a sob as his hands grip messily at the collar of Kurt’s shirt, probably soiling them enough to demand a trip to the cleaner’s, palms still sticky with precome. His lips press forward until they meet skin, violating the soft touch of Kurt’s lips with a tongue that presses inside, insistent, tasting a faint hint of Kurt’s coffee — nonfat mocha, Blaine’s committed it to memory long ago, but not like this, never quite like this. Emboldened, his hands wrap around Kurt’s hipbones, practically digging against the muscle as his hips suddenly stutter to a halt, before easing back into steady movement — back onto the slick length of Kurt’s fingers, forward until he feels his cock pressed against Kurt’s even through the fabric, pulse pulse, heated pulse.   
  
Kurt’s breath brushes cold where it draws sharp against the kiss, like he’s practically forgotten to breathe —  _you take my breath away_ , he always used to say, and Blaine tugs at the side of Kurt’s lip to prove he can do it again — and it only presses Blaine forward, faster, only the friction’s not enough like this, fingertips dragging along fabric before he reaches the smooth, warm metal of Kurt’s belt, giving it a sharp tug that sends hipbones knocking.  
  
When he feels a familiar hand wrapping around his wrist and tightening until his fingers still, Blaine’s pretty sure it doesn’t get any worse than this, a pathetic whine pressed against the hollow of Kurt’s cheek as he shakes his head. “No, we can’t— I’m so close, Mr. Hummel, I— Nn.”  
  
Trying to buck into Kurt’s fingers again with a tilt of his hips, Blaine only finds himself rewarded with a shove against the tiled wall, _again_ , and the jar makes him wonder if there’ll be bruises the next day, if they’ll be anywhere people might notice.  
  
Strange, what the mind clings to in moments like this.  
  
Blaine shivers as Kurt pulls his fingers out, dragging them slick over the span of Blaine’s back, circling around the dimples by the base of his spine. But try as Blaine might to follow their progress, all too soon he blinks back surprise as Kurt’s fingertips trace along his lips, still on pins and needles from their kisses seconds ago.  
  
“You know, for all the effort it takes to teach you,” Kurt murmurs against the shell of Blaine’s ear, the tone dangerously sharp, “the return has been minimal.”  
  
His hand, fingers long and pale, grabs onto Blaine’s tie and tugs.  
  
“Let’s find a way to fix that.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Temperatures war throughout Blaine’s body as Kurt continues to lead him by the length of his tie, now slightly uncomfortable as it chafes around his neck. His Dalton blazer, though slightly askew, still rests on his shoulders, heavy and thick, encouraging the light sheen of sweat that lingers by Blaine’s neck and underneath his shirt. His legs are painfully bare, cock throbbing against his abdomen and begging for release, the heated skin shivering against air and heightening the sense of vulnerability. There’s a constant reminder that wars through his head as they step in tandem, Blaine’s eyes so frequently slipping down to rest on Kurt’s lips, soft and swollen to the eye — that he’d do anything,  _anything_  right now for that sense of approval, to feel wanted,  _needed_ , and someone worth being proud of. There’s a light in Kurt’s eyes, behind which Blaine knows there’s a smile, if only he can figure out how exactly to coax it out under current circumstances.  
  
He doesn’t have long to wonder before he slips on the carpet under the weight of Kurt’s hand, fingers stretching across his chest and shoving Blaine back into place with a snap of static — his socks, Blaine thinks, this is why he never wears socks in his room — and a bounce of springs as he falls against the mattress.  
  
“You,” Kurt says with an arched brow, the mere brush of knuckles against Blaine’s sternum enough to coax the other boy further back on the mattress, and they travel together with the pucker of sheets under their palms. “Tell me, Blaine. How badly do you want me?” His words flutter against the hollow of Blaine’s cheek, deft fingers working to loosen the tie.  
  
“So much,” Blaine murmurs breathlessly, back arching towards the heat of Kurt, slightly out of reach.  
  
“You know, now that we’re here. I’ve wanted you, too,” Kurt speaks against the side of Blaine’s throat, lips pressing against the constant beat of Kurt’s pulse, hard and sharp against the skin, salty with sweat. “How many times have I stared at you in class, diligently writing away in your notebook, calm and composed — wanted to see that fall apart right under me. Fuck you over the table, have that perfect ass against my palm as I find you. Let you take my cock, slow at first, then  _fast_ , rough, anything to make you scream.”  
  
Kurt’s hips suddenly drop down, pressing Blaine into the mattress as he lets out a sharp gasp, bucking up against the long, hard line of Kurt’s cock, and his own pulsing, boxers already damp. He tugs at a hand, only to find that somehow, it’s tied to the headboard of his bed, red and blue stripes leaving flushed, pink skin where he struggles against the bond, if only because there isn’t nearly enough of Kurt to hold, to touch. But conscious choices make way for desperation, Blaine’s lips parted and breath heaving in his chest as he juts his hips up, quick, frantic, a whine slipping through his teeth and heavy with need — almost there — can hardly breathe for the way his whole body feels hot, vision a bright orange, and somehow all that falls from his lips are those two words on repeat:  
  
Mr. Hummel,  _Mr. Hummel_.  
  
Shuddering, Blaine’s shoulders suddenly draw up in a hunch, inhale ragged as his cock continues to slide against the cleft of Kurt’s ass, even through the fabric, a cry falling silent on his lips.  
  
But the whole world lurches to a stop as he feels a soft palm wrapping around his length and squeezing at the base, so sudden that his thighs ache and burn where they’re suddenly forced to a grinding halt.  
  
“No,” Kurt says, just one word, and somehow laced with a threat.  
  
With a shiver that continues to pass through his body with the muted sensation of pinpricks against his skin, Blaine startles to realize that there are tears sliding down from the corners of his eyes, hot even as Kurt leans in to kiss them away with the brief press of tongue.  
  
“I won’t go unsatisfied,” adds Kurt against the shell of Blaine’s ear, tongue trailing along the arch before his teeth close around the lobe with a soft bite. “I want to feel your lips around me. I want you to taste me. I want to bury myself deep into you, until I’m inside your skin. I want to etch myself into your memory so that you never forget, even when you’ve graduated, moved on to bigger and better — I want you to remember this night.” His fingers wrap around Blaine’s cock, and again he shudders with that exhale, gasp bright against the silence.  
  
Blaine supposes that somewhere along the way, Kurt must have turned the stereo off.  
  
(It’s all in the details, again.)  
  
“May I suck you?” Blaine asks, turning his head until he can momentarily bury his nose against Kurt’s hair, taking a deep breath, smelling Kurt’s cologne, and he hopes it lingers on his blazer long after the night is over.  
  
In response, he hears the clink of a belt and the soft whisper of trousers that slip to the floor, and when Blaine blinks his eyes again, the world’s too bright from where he’s had his eyes closed for a few minutes now. Everything painted in shades of burnt orange and the gold of sunrise, and Blaine feels his lips parting in surprise when he sees Kurt, hard for him, with a twitch under Blaine’s gaze. Without waiting for consent, Blaine pushes forward, straining against the tie holding him back while his free hand quickly pushes Kurt’s pants down, brushing by the round curve of Kurt’s ass and pulling him closer.  
  
“Fuck,” he hears Kurt whisper, a grunt under his breath as Blaine swirls his tongue around Kurt’s head, the taste sharp and scent heavy as he runs the tip down the slit of Kurt’s cock. “Fuck, Anderson, you feel so good.” Blaine practically grins when he feels fingers threading through his hair, then nearly coughs as they bring him closer, the movement rough until he’s taken as much of Kurt as he can, wrapping a wet palm around the rest of Kurt’s dick, fingers sliding along the puckered skin underneath.  
  
When Blaine tries to slip that spare hand down to where his cock throbs almost painfully, Kurt responds with a sudden slap, bright, against the back of Blaine’s hand.  
  
“No,” he repeats, and Blaine moans in frustration as his breath snags in his throat.  


* * *

“Shit,” Kurt pants, voice drawn thin in a whine as his nails dig into Blaine’s scalp. “Shit, Anderon, I’m — I’m going to —  _haaah_ .”  
  
Cheeks hollowed, Blaine works as quickly as he can, a twist of his wrist around the base of Kurt’s cock as he sucks harder, counting the beats between Kurt’s breaths and pressing the tip of his tongue against the head, swirling, trailing along the ridge. Suddenly, Kurt’s thighs tighten and he pulls back with a soft cry, Blaine’s eyes closing just in time as Kurt’s come hits his cheeks, hot and heady in scent. With a shuddering breath, Blaine’s hips shift, rotating as the head of his cock runs against Kurt’s abdomen, soft skin with harder planes of muscle underneath. He chances a glance at Kurt, eyes thankfully clear of come, and every time Blaine thinks he’s never seen Kurt more beautiful, still Kurt manages to exceed all expectations, cheeks a bright rose and skin practically glowing in the soft light.  
  
“How are you feeling, Mr. Hummel?” Blaine asks, hips still rocking until he feels Kurt’s thumb, softer than before, pressing against the curve of his bone and slowing them both to a stop.  
  
“No cheek, Anderson,” murmurs Kurt as he leans in, tongue briefly brushing against Blaine’s cheek, tasting himself. “Although I think a little self-grading may be in order.”  
  
“I’m not done yet,” Blaine says with confidence, tilting his head to capture Kurt’s lips in a kiss. “Hoping for extra credit. Oral critique?”  
  
A touch of Kurt seeps into the laughter that lingers by Blaine’s ear, but it isn’t long before gentle hands free Blaine from the tie, the pad of Kurt’s thumb running over raw skin.  
  
“I think you may have earned that much.”  
  
Turning Blaine over with a sharp dig of his thumb under the hollow of Blaine’s hipbone, Kurt leans close to run his teeth against the softer skin at the back of Blaine’s neck, where the softest of hairs stand on end. Not being able to look behind him, Blaine closes his eyes, hearing the snap of elastic from one side, then another — even through his uniform, he can feel Kurt’s warmth pressed flush against his back, and it relaxes him, thighs spreading until he sprawls on top of the mattress, rutting against the sheets — but before long, he’s dragged up to his knees again, watching blearily as Kurt adjusts his suspenders, looping the elastic around each of Blaine’s wrists and fastening them to the bed frame.  
  
“I don’t want you going anywhere,” Kurt murmurs once he’s returned to Blaine’s side, straddling closely enough for the long, thick line of his cock to press sweetly along Blaine’s spine.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Hummel. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”  
  
“Not too fast,” the reply comes in a kiss, before lips start to knead down Blaine’s back, teeth scraping strongly against the edges of Blaine’s shoulder blades, drawing pink lines from his faintly tanned skin. He feels the pressure coiling more still in his abdomen, allowing himself only a cautious, steady roll of his hips against the bed.  
  
There’s no sudden chill when Kurt pulls away, but heat fades steadily away from Blaine as Kurt drags his body down, the mattress pressed down with a fold left and right as Blaine rubs his cheek into his pillow, taking a deep and stifled breath, waiting for that telltale sound — the pop of a bottle and slide of lube into the palm of a hand.  
  
Usually, Kurt takes the time to warm his hands up before taking to Blaine, but today’s the exception — Blaine chokes when a finger suddenly finds its way against that pucker, too cold from the unwarmed lube, too intrusive for Blaine to relax as his cock stiffens again.  
  
“That’s one,” Kurt points out, before Blaine lets in a sharp intake of breath at the feel of a tongue joining that finger, both fucking and driving as deeply as they can.  
  
“F—fuck, Kurt.”  
  
He  _aches_  by the time Kurt pulls back next.  
  
“Two.”  
  
As far back as his binding lets him, Blaine pushes himself onto Kurt’s hand, a low and stuttering groan slipping from his lips, drawing closer to that line, but this is only two, only  _two_ , and though they’ve never been so strict to holding to numbers before, it’s different now. Tonight, expectations matter, and Blaine holds on to three, legs quaking underneath him as he slumps. Peeking at Kurt from underneath the side of his arm, he pants.  
  
“Sir, would you… would you?”  
  
Kurt’s lips pull thin. Blaine almost feels a sense of loss when he feels Kurt’s fingers pulling out, until he feels them slick against the line under his cock, tracing straight to the slit by the tip.  
  
“ _Please_ ,” he cries out, voice half-muffled by the pillows pulled underneath his chin, and he doesn’t quite have the time to let the plea die before he feels Kurt pushing into him, sudden, rough, the both of them spiraling for how they’ve come to complete each other again. As peers, or as now, one of them leading the other, fully trusting.  
  
“Oh, baby,” Kurt whines, voice almost cracking in broken character, before slamming in a second time, a jolt of pleasure riding through Blaine in bumpy progress, back arching until his neck strains against tight muscles. “Oh,  _fuck_ , Blaine, you feel good. You make me feel good. You’re all mine, and you take me so well, like you’re made for this. For me.”  
  
Rough though the actions are, when Blaine feels Kurt’s lips brush soft against the shell of his ear, he feels like he’s melting all over again, voice raising in pitch as he tries his best to slip out of the suspenders, but Kurt’s done too good of a job for that, temptation far out of reach.  
  
“Kurt, please—”  
  
“—Anderson—”  
  
“—I want to feel your, your hand, I can’t hold it,  _please_ ,” Blaine insists, blinking in surprise as a few tears run down the length of his cheek. He hears an intake of breath, sharp, from Kurt, laced with that high pitch that they only share in moments like this, in moments when—  
  
“Oh god, I’m close, I’m gonna—”  
  
Stuttering, Kurt thrusts into Blaine, filling him completely, more than either of them imagined possible. He falls into silence, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and no air passing through his lips, parted though they may be, as a frantic slap of skin against skin fills the room. Blaine feels Kurt spilling inside of him, hot and warm and welcome, spreading through almost the entirety of his body, it seems, and hotter than anything save for the uncomfortable swell of his cock, still twitching with the movement.  
  
Blaine feels Kurt slumping against his back, and he wishes that he could turn to get a proper look at Kurt’s face, the rosy cheeks he’s fallen in love with a thousand times before, but all he catches is the sight of glasses falling onto the bedspread, and swears that they’re fogged more than they were only minutes ago.  
  
Staring at the dark metallic frames, it hardly registers that Kurt’s loosening the ties around Blaine’s wrists until he’s able to collapse on his back, hands lifted in midair and a questioning gaze aimed in Kurt’s direction.  
  
Without a second’s pause, Blaine feels his teeth clacking against Kurt’s and the tingling of pressure, crushing against his lips. Kurt’s undoing each button on Blaine’s collared shirt, breaking away from his boyfriend’s lips with a wet sound, tongue traveling down the side of the chest before his lips wrap around Blaine’s nipple. Teasing with his teeth, Kurt tugs, and Blaine’s back arches up to meet the contact, a rasp drawing in when he feels Kurt’s hand wrapped around his cock, slicking precome until the friction lessens.  
  
“I can’t — I’m—” Blaine feels his entire body tightening, nerves suddenly burning white-hot, and shudders when Kurt presses against the hollow of his cheek, his hand too fast and smooth against Blaine’s length, swirling and thumb gently running down the slit, circling the tip.  
  
“It’s fine,” Kurt murmurs, and it’s all the permission Blaine needs.  
  
“ _Fuuuuuck_ ,” Blaine groans through a clenched jaw, hips shoving upward with a jolt, and he’s coming apart in Kurt’s hands, his entire world at his feet, seen through hazy eyes in shades of blue and green. That moment feels like eternity, coming and cresting in waves that spill hotly over Kurt’s hand, every last touch of tension unraveling as he thrusts those last few times against Kurt’s palm, seeing the stars.  
  
“I love you,” he breathes, straining for air.  
  
“Et en français?”  
  
Laughing silently in disbelief, Blaine shakes his head, turning on his side until he can press his nose to Kurt’s. “Je t’aime,” he murmurs.  
  
“Moi aussi,” Kurt agrees, all pretense evaporated in an instant. “Je t’aime.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:
> 
> _Et en français?: And in French?_   
> _Je t’aime: I love you._   
> _Moi aussi: Me too._


End file.
